Dahsau Ma'bezhun
by pheonixfeather94
Summary: A progression of logic, through conflicted eyes. S/U
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **Hello all! Thanks for stopping by. Some of you may recognize snippets here and there as part of one of my other fics, _Frammenti_. After consideration, I've decided to expand _Frammenti _from its original purpose as a drabble collection into a full-length fic. However, the pieces I had written for _Frammenti_ will appear here.

Now that that's clear as mud. A couple of things, just so they don't get lost in translation (har-har):

The title means "A Shared Perspective" in Vulcan. Or as close to it as I could get from the online Vulcan Dictionary.

The italicized words underneath the chapter numbers will either mean "From Spock's Perspective" or "From Nyota's Perspective". (The one with "Spokh" in it is Spock's, and the one with "Nyota" in it is Nyota, for those who are common-sense challenged.) As of right now, they are all from Spock's perspective, as I'm considering doing a sequel entirely from Nyota's. But, she may decide she wants some lines in here as well, so for the sake of uniformity, I threw in the distinction.

Vulcan/Swahili words will appear either in italics (if the rest of the passage is in normal font) or normal font (if the rest of the passage is in italics). It should be easy enough to follow along. I will do my best to remember to provide translations at the bottom of each chapter, though you should be able to glean the meaning from context clues. All non-English words used will either be from Google translate, or the VLD, so feel free to look any up that I miss, or let me know in a review, and I'll put the definitions in. Any full on conversations in any language will appear in English, with the language referenced (i.e., _Spock slipped easily into his native tongue, responding, "_"._)

Italicized passages represent either flashbacks or Spock's inner turmoil; the tense will give you a clue. The focus of this fic, for me, is to explore the inner conflict of the character, and resolve it in a way that shows character growth and development. Zachary Quinto's Spock is much more troubled than Leonard Nimoy's. Some kind of revolution took place in there somewhere. Passage of time and/or change of scenery is signaled by a bolded line.

As JJ Abrams rather reinvented the entire ST universe, that leaves me, as an author, lots of room to play. I'll try to stay pretty close to established cannon, and sometimes even established fannon, but I've taken several creative liberties as well.

I'm an erratic poster. I tend to go months and months without updating. Just an FYI. Though, the fact that I have the first five chapters already written and in the process of being revised, along with having the first ten outlined in detail, is promising. I don't have a set "update schedule"; it just happens when it does. I'm a college student. I also work and have a social life. I write in my free time, for pleasure. I also don't have a beta; so any mistake you see is mine, and feel free to point it out. That said, I appreciate each and every one of my readers, and I read and take into serious consideration, each and every review. Don't be afraid to leave criticism; it's how I grow as a writer.

And last but not least, none of this stuff belongs to me, except the majority of the actual typed words. Kudos to Gene Roddenberry and JJ Abrams for giving me such a nice little sandbox to play in. Any quote that appears will be appropriately cited; along the same lines, I ask that you not replicate or reuse any of my work without my permission, as it is my original work.

Phew. Now that I've scared off the majority of you, on to what you really came for: the story.

* * *

_**One**_

_(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)_

"_It's like seeing someone for the first time, _

_and you look at each other for a few seconds. _

_Next moment, the person's gone, and it's too late to do anything about it..."_

* * *

_He remembers with perfect clarity the first time he saw her. _

_ It was a Sunday morning, and he was perusing a local farmers' market, as was his usual Sunday morning routine. He was gingerly picking through a display of mangoes, when he was jostled by a group of small children pushing past. Caught off guard, he stumbled, his leg knocking against the leg of the display tables. Mangoes began showering down around him and instinctively, he threw an arm out in an attempt to stem the avalanche. He was contemplating his situation, and how to most effectively remove himself and the danger of falling fruit, when he heard a voice behind him. _

_ "Oh! Oh my goodness—here, let me help you!"_

_ The voice was distinctly feminine, but due to his awkward positioning, he couldn't see the woman to whom it belonged. He caught bits and pieces of her in his periphery—a swatch of white fabric here, a flash of dark hair there—as she reached around him and began to deftly reassemble the display. Her hands were slender, and cool when they brushed against the sensitive skin on the underside of his wrist. He felt the unintentional nudge of her mind against his, a fog of swirling, snippeted, incoherent thought and feeling, and resisted the urge to shift away. The contact was unsettling, but mercifully brief; in seven seconds, she had moved on to another area of the pile. As she leant farther over him, he noticed that her nails were neatly trimmed, and painted a deep charcoal. _

_ In less than two minutes, she had relieved him of his uncomfortable position. He maneuvered as gracefully as possible from under her and straightened up, brushing a smudge of dirt from his sleeve. She arranged the remaining fruits into a visually pleasing arrangement. _

_ "There," she declared triumphantly, turning to face him. "All fixed."_

_ The natural upturn of of her mouth stopped abruptly short of a smile as she came to fully face him. He watched her eyes widen as her gaze bounced from the severe arch of his brow up to the delicate taper of his ear and down across the blunt lines of his hair._

_ He watched her carefully for her reaction, automatically cataloging her own appearance: approximately one hundred and seventy centimeters tall, an estimated fifty-two kilograms. Her bone structure spoke distinctly of African descent, though her skin tone was a lighter caramel in comparison to the deep ebony with which he was familiar. He found her face an odd paradox of protuberant and delicate, what with her high forehead, and clearly defined cheekbones. Her jaw, however, tapered in towards her mouth at an aesthetically pleasing angle. Her eyes seemed strangely sunken—though he realized upon further observation that it was only her strategic application of cosmetics that made them seem unusually, though not unattractively large and shadowed. Long dark hair fell well past her shoulder blades, the color mimicking that of her irises and again repeated in the faint lines of a Terran tattoo peeking from under the wrist of her right sleeve. In a bold contrast, a minute golden stud embedded in her right nostril caught the sunlight and glittered. _

_ He decided that her physical appearance was altogether pleasant, though she was not particularly striking._

_ Not from a purely observational perspective, anyway. _

_ His brain carefully filed all this information in less than three seconds. She still seemed somewhat at a loss for words. It was a predicament he had grown quite accustomed to over his tenure on Earth. As he had in many other occasions, he broke the silence first, and, it seemed, simultaneously, her own observation. _

_ "Your assistance is appreciated."_

_ Her mouth favored up again, two point seven degrees. "Of course. Any time. Although," a mischievous glint filled her eyes, "I doubt I'd be quite as much help with the pumpkins."_

_ He followed her gaze to the left, where there was a large crate of the orange squashes. "It is fortunate, then, that my craving for mango momentarily overruled my appetite for pumpkin pie."_

_ The dry witicism seemed to catch her off guard; a brief, startled laugh burst from her. "Indeed it is."_

_ He inclined his head in a universal gesture of farewell. "Have a pleasant afternoon."_

_ "You as well." She raised a hand in a brief wave, and then continued west, towards where a young Orion woman stood outside a cafe, one hand perched impatiently on her hip. She barely made it ten paces, however, before she turned suddenly and called, "Try to give the pumpkins a wide berth, yeah?"_

_ Before he could respond, she was smiling, really smiling this time, a flash of white teeth that was literally blinding. The light reflected up to her eyes, which twinkled, the delicate skin around their edges crinkling with the force of her expression. And then, in the very next moment, the edge of the still-rising sun peeked around the edge of the building and illuminated her skin, the white of her dress, and she was glowing, caught up in an impossible halo of light, and he was breathless. _

_ His heart beat out a rapid staccato against his ribs for one point seven seconds before he reclaimed metabolic control, and by that time, she was gone, weaving through the crowd to rejoin her companion, a faint hint of jasmine trailing along behind her. _

_ He could not help but find her fascinating._

* * *

Spock stared up at the screen of his hand-held scanner and read off line after line of increasingly dismaying data to the ensign crouched next to his feet.

"Scanner 4.2S, three point four seven percent operational. Scanner 4.3S two point nine zero percent operational." He paused for a moment before reading the next figure. "Scanner 4.4S, zero point six five percent operational."

"Point _six five_?" the ensign repeated, glancing down at him for clarification. The ensign's—his name was Bradley—eyebrows were up in the vicinity of his hairline, which was saying something, as he chose to keep his hair in a tight buzz.

"Affirmative," Spock said, voice grim to his own ears.

Letting out a low whistle, Bradley typed the information into his PADD. "Looks like we're gonna have some work to do, Lieutenant Commander."

"Indeed, Ensign," Spock agreed wholeheartedly. "Scanner 4.5S, zero point two three percent operational."

Spock and Ensign Bradley continued their analysis of the _USS Providence_'s considerable damage with little more conversation. Spock found this satisfactory; he rather enjoyed working with Ensign Bradley, who, as a human, seemed to have an unusual respect for his Vulcan habits. Their task, as well, seemed to be sufficiently distracting. In ironic contrast to it's name, the ship had been inflicted with numerous impairments, the extent of which they were still relatively uncertain. Though, considering the _Providence_'s recent altercation involving no less than four Klingon War Birds, Spock supposed the old DY-500 class vessel was in a rather commendable state.

Spock and Ensign Bradley had just completed their examination of the scanner systems when Captain Christopher Pike's voice rang out across Engineering, "Mr. Spock! Ensign Bradley! Olly olly oxen free!"

Ensign Bradley sniggered below him, and then began descending the short ladder that led out of the central computer's hub. Spock frowned, and followed him.

"I'm afraid I am unfamiliar with your terminology, Captain," he addressed Pike once they were face to face. "'Olly olly oxen free'." He repeated the strange sounding words,enunciating carefully.

Pike grinned. "It's an old Terran phrase, Spock. Used in children's games, like Hide and Seek. It means the game is over."

Spock was familiar with the Terran game—one which his human cousins had always wanted to play—and decided it was an appropriate, if not illogical, response to his and Ensign Bradley's previous location inside the server. "Does this mean that Ensign Bradley and I 'win', Sir?" Spock asked dryly.

Pike and Bradley both laughed, and the Captain clapped a hand down on Spock's shoulder, a gesture to which he was slowly growing accustomed. "Sure, Spock. How's lunch sound as a prize?"

At the mention of food, Spock felt his stomach twist in anticipation. It had been nine point three hours since he'd last ingested sustenance.

"Sounds good to me, Sir," Bradley piped up.

"That would be satisfactory, Captain," Spock agreed.

He and Ensign Bradley packed up their equipment, and followed Captain Pike out to the shuttle bay. It was only a few minutes' ride from Space Station One, where the _Providence_ was docked for repairs, back to the San Francisco shipyards. From there, the three men walked to a nearby diner, which was surprisingly full for nearly fifteen hundred hours in the afternoon. Thankfully, the hostess seated them back in a corner, away from the bulk of the ruckus. Ensign Bradley excused himself to the restroom shortly after submitting his order, leaving Spock and Captain Pike to their small talk.

"The ship is in need of major repairs, Captain," Spock replied in response to Pike's inquiry after the 'diagnosis' of the _Providence_. "The computer systems alone require extensive reparation. The War Birds' phaser fire quite literally fried nearly eighty three percent of the on-board hard drives. Transferring the information will be a laborious task."

"Do you have a time estimate?" Pike asked intently, taking a swig from his Budweiser.

Spock ran a few rough calculations mentally. "It could take anywhere from three to six weeks to repair the computer systems, Sir, depending on the amount of help available and the speed of which the necessary parts can be acquired. I am certain it will take just as long to return the physical elements to their original state as well."

"Damn," the captain swore under his breath. "I was afraid of that." The older man ran a hand over his face in a manner that Spock interpreted as exasperated. Suddenly, he sat forward, leaning across the table towards Spock.

"Were you aware that Captain Becker is currently on a medical leave of absence?"

Spock lifted an eyebrow at the abrupt change of subject. "Negative, Captain." He remembered Captain Becker from his days as a student, but he had not had any contact with the instructor in the five years since his commencement.

"Well, now you are." The Captain paused for a moment, and then added, almost distractedly, "Andorian Shingles."

Spock inclined his head respectfully, as it seemed Pike was well acquainted with Captain Becker. "I am sorry, Sir."

"Yeah," Captain Pike agreed, "so am I. They say he's stabilizing, though."

"A relief, I am sure," Spock commented.

Pike was quiet for a moment, tracing a finger around the lip of his drink and staring off absently over Spock's left shoulder. Spock felt his confusion mounting; the Captain's behavior was becoming exceedingly difficult to follow, not to mention less and less logical.

"Captain?" he prompted, almost hesitantly.

Pike seemed to snap out of his daze. He exhaled heavily, and took another drink. "Rear Admiral Cole has been unable to find what he deems an 'acceptable' replacement."

Spock's intuition suddenly clicked, his mind bringing him up to speed on the captain's trajectory. "I am a sciences officer, Captain, not a linguist," he informed Pike, rather needlessly.

"You have undeniable communication skills, Spock," Pike countered.

Spock let the irony of the captain's statement hang in the air for a moment before his eyebrow inched up again. "Possessing knowledge of and fluency in multiple federation languages makes me no more suited to instructing intergalactic communication as does having four legs makes a giraffe an acceptable racehorse."

Pike stared at him for a moment before snorting in apparent laughter. "Touche," he muttered.

There was a beat of silence before Spock, curiosity besting him, inquired, "In which courses is an instructor required?"

Captain Pike glanced up at him, eyebrows raised, with a rather smug smile beginning to spread across his features. "Advanced Phonology."

He remembered clearly his own advanced phonology course. The subject content had had less to do with actual communication than it did the creation of sound and the measurement of waves—both subjects in which he judged himself versed enough to instruct. In addition, if his calculations were correct—and he was ninety nine point eight percent sure they were—the semester would be finished before the _Providence_ and her crew were once again fit for duty. His schedule was conveniently unoccupied.

Captain Pike's smile was approaching a full-fledged grin.

"I would like to see the lesson plans for the course, the subject matter currently being reviewed, and the academic performance of the students enrolled before I make any final commitments."

Ensign Bradley returned to his seat just as Spock was finishing his sentence. "There was a line ten kilometers long," he said in clear hyperbole, rolling his eyes. "What are we committing to?"

Spock fixed the captain with a pointed stare. "Nothing."

Pike beamed.

* * *

The heat from his flickering _asenoi _cast a warm glow over his face, reminiscent of Vulcan's heat. He breathed in deeply, smelling the sage of the wild bushes that lined the edges of his family's property. Slowly, he drifted back to consciousness, his internal clock informing him that he had spent much longer than was customary in meditation. He had accounted for this, however—he had risen earlier than his usual six hundred hours to afford himself an extra hour. It was to be a stressful day; he would need the extra control.

He blinked, coming to, and was cognizant once more of the fact that the scent he was so deeply inhaling was merely incense. He would not, as he halfway expected whenever coming out of his meditative trance, turn around to see the impressive lines of his family's house, or hear the pleasant sound of his mother's tinkling laughter floating on the wind. As usual, he felt the normal pang of homesickness before he pulled his _tvi-sochya_ close around him like a blanket.

Extinguishing the flame of his fire pot, he rose, and padded silently into his quarters' small kitchenette. A cup of tea and a bowl of _plomeek_ soup, both still steaming, were waiting for him on the tray of the replicator. He ate, finding the silence of the morning hour pleasant. There were very few instances in which he considered himself fully at ease, and these short moments of peace he awarded himself daily were one of them. Rather unconsciously, he leant his hip against the counter as he raised the spoon to his lips—a habit he had picked up from his mother as a small child—and absently considered the morning sunshine streaming in through his westward-facing windows. It was already promising to be an unseasonably warm day; Spock made a mental note to dress accordingly.

Placing his now empty bowl next to the sink, he turned to the various PADDs spread across the counter top, which held class rosters, lesson plans, and other miscellaneous information, respectively. It wasn't necessary to review the information—he, like all Vulcans, possessed an eidetic memory—but he found the replaying of information in his mind comforting. Three hundred and thirty two students, spread unevenly between six discussion groups, composed of a politically correct and almost perfectly diverse mixture: eleven Orions, thirteen Andorians, and seventeen Betazoids; of the three hundred and twenty nine native Terrans, one hundred and sixty three were of Caucasian descent, seventy Hispanic, thirty five African and twenty three Asian. He had researched their academic and disciplinary records to find them all upstanding individuals—an agreeable discovery, if not the slightest surprising.

At seven fifteen, he drained what was left of his tea, and made his way to the small en suite bathroom. After showering and carefully shaving, he dressed in the unfamiliar gray instructor's uniform and collected his PADDs into a modest black briefcase. By seven fifty, he was punching in the access code to Captain Becker's personal office, which was, indeed, disconcertingly personal. Spock tried his best to ignore the impressive collection of holographs adorning the walls, and placed his briefcase on the desk, withdrawing the pertinent materials for his first class. At seven fifty-five, he keyed in the code to unlock the adjoining classroom, and entered.

It was unchanged from his time as a cadet. The same five columns of desks stretched back five rows from the same instructor's podium placed beside the same computer console. Pulling in a deep breath, he stepped up behind the podium. It was an intriguing sensation; being situated on the opposite side of a small metal structure shouldn't have been able to affect the perception of the overall room in such a way.

He was not too proud to admit to anxiety. He would even go so far as to deem the emotion a logical response. His patterns of interaction with humans, though much improved from his arrival in San Francisco nearly seven years ago, were still lacking. It was a weakness unbecoming of an instructor—a weakness he had been actively working to improve in the short ten days since accepting the temporary position.

He allowed himself another deep inhalation and a moment to ensure he was firmly centered before opening the doors.

The fifty seven students trickled in in groups of twos and threes, and by the time eight hundred hours struck, all of them were sitting impressively quiet and still in their seats. Their manifest respect for authority was very satisfactory, indeed, he thought, as he stepped forward to introduce himself.

"Good morning." He inclined his head in his usual gesture of greeting, and his hands found their customary place nestled in the small of his back. "I am Lieutenant Commander Spock. I will be temporarily relieving Captain Becker of his duties as instructor." Judging by the expressions on some of their faces, he surmised that they were aware of the captain's ailment.

Releasing one hand to pull up the class roster on his PADD, he continued. "I would like to begin this morning's session by calling roll. When I call your name, please respond in keeping with correct Starfleet Academy protocol. I will apologize in advance for any mispronunciations that should occur. Abbott, Samuel."

A young man in the fourth row stood and snapped to attention. "Cadet Abbott present, sir."

Spock released him with a short nod. "As you were, Cadet. Carson, Kelley."

He continued down the list until he reached the last name. "Uhura, Nyota." The syllables were thick on his tongue, awkward around his teeth and the movement of his jaw—_Ooh-hoo-rah, Nie-oh-tah._ Frowning, he read over the name once more. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure in red stand.

"_Nee-oh-tah_, Sir. Cadet Nyota Uhura present."

Something about her voice piqued his interest—_oh! Oh my goodness, let me help you!_-and he looked up, knowing before he did so who the person in front of him would be.

Her red cadet's uniform was a far cry from the white tunic he'd last seen her in, and the bronze of her legs was concealed under dark tights and regulation boots. Her hair, instead of flowing free down her back, was pulled into a knot high on her head, accentuating the graceful slope of her neck and the delicate whorl of her ears. He noticed that the gold stud was conspicuously absent.

Cadet Uhura blinked at him, dark eyes dancing and knowing and warm. She smiled the briefest of smiles—so far from the blinding flash of teeth against lips against skin, but still achieving very nearly the same effect—and straightened in her salute. It occurred to him, suddenly, that she had known his identity that day in the market.

"Nyota Uhura." The consonants were much smoother when spoken slower, more clearly; they tumbled off his lips, mellifluous. She nodded once, an affirmation, her smile growing almost imperceptibly wider.

"At ease, Cadet."

He was aware that this introduction had taken six point seven seconds longer than the previous fifty six.

He also noted that his voice was rougher, lower than its usual pitch.

He cleared his throat and continued.

* * *

"_...And you always remember it, because it was there_

_and you let it go._

_And you think to yourself, what if I'd stopped?_

_What if I'd said something?_

_What if?"_

"Out of Sight" (1998), Scott Frank and Elmore Leonard

* * *

_asenoi—_a firepot used in meditation

_plomeek—_traditional Vulcan cuisine; a soup, commonly eaten for breakfast.

_tvi-sochya—_mental control, logic, emotional control.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Notes: **A huge thanks to all who have reviewed/followed/favorited so far. You all make my day :) I've taken a couple of creative liberties—Spock's family name, for example, is now S'chn T'gai, and Surak has a new addition to his teachings, to name a couple. Translations are at the bottom of the page, but you shouldn't need them.

* * *

_**Two**_

_(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)_

"_My thoughts are free to go anywhere..."_

* * *

_ He doesn't dream; Vulcans, as a general rule, do not dream. _

_ He has never dreamt before, and yet, he finds his unconscious plagued more and more frequently by images of her. _

_ He wakes abruptly in the middle of the night, bare torso covered in a sheen of moisture. His breathing is erratic, his pulse elevated, and as he sits up in bed, shoving the tangled sheets from his legs, he attempts to regulate it. He orders the lights on dim, the temperature of his apartment to lower three degrees, and rests his sweaty forehead against the palms of his hands. He is confused, the sensation dizzying, and he tries in vain to pull what tattered shards of his mental control are left closer around him. His brain works quickly—though slowed by his unusual state of cognitive disarray—to asses his condition. His respiratory and cardiac functions are elevated by three point five and four point seven percents, respectively, and he is in a nearly painful state of arousal. He feels ill, but there is no logical reason for the symptoms; he has eaten sufficiently, exercised normally, and followed his regular patterns of circadian rhythm. _

_ Shaking slightly, he staggers over to the alcove of his bedroom where his firepot sits, surrounded by cushions, and drops unceremoniously to the floor. With trembling hands, he lights the flame, and forces his eyes to focus on it, feeling his body fall away as he pulls his mind to the forefront of his concentration. As always, he feels the dual parts of his cognitive functioning—the _por'sen_ and the _olozhika_, the emotion and the logic. His logical thoughts are organized and compartmentalized into tidy schemas, a post office of sorts, under which the roaring waters of his emotion thrash against carefully constructed barriers—barriers which, tonight, seem disturbingly weak. He grits his teeth, and allows himself to sink, carefully, into the frothy depths of his primal mind, Surak's teaching echoing through his ears—_t'san t'sat wuh'wak lu'ken-tor, _emotional control is only achieved when the emotion is understood. He allows himself to feel._

_ There is the obvious, lust, crashing down in waves of nearly debilitating strength. It is distracting and all-consuming, but he forces himself through it. Beneath the lust is an undercurrent of domination, a sharp thrill of pleasure, the gentle lull of affection._

_ He smells jasmine on the air. _

_ His eyes snap open and his breath is a ragged gasp and suddenly he understands. _

_ Her image flashes in his mind in perfect minute detail, and he feels himself calm. There is a reason for his unrest; he is not descending into the depths of madness. _

_ His eyelids flutter closed once more, and he breathes deeply of a scent that is not physically present. He focuses on the curve of her throat, the hollows of her cheeks, the gentle swirl of her raspberry lips curling up around symmetrical teeth. His breathing evens out. Slowly, he feels his blood begin to return to its normal patterns of circulation. _

_ He is attracted to her, that much is clear; she captivates him, entrances him with a mellifluous voice and sparkling eyes and an untamable spirit. _

_ He accepts this, lets himself indulge in the warmth she casts over his being. It is a logical reaction to a woman in possession of impressive intellect and unassuming beauty. _

_ He breathes in, and out. His hands come up of their own accord to rest under his chin. The muscles in his body melt away, and he lets himself fall into meditation. _

_ In, and out. _

_ In, and out. _

_ In...and out..._

_ Attraction he can manage. He immerses himself in the emotion, soaks it up into his arms and legs and fingers and toes, wades deeply into the currents of his mind, and then releases it. _

_ His mental barriers begin instantly knitting back together._

* * *

The next two weeks passed by at an alarming rate. This realization reminded Spock of an old human adage to which his mother had referenced quite often in his childhood: time flies when you're having fun.

He supposed the sentiment was adequate. As it turned out, he was much better suited to instructing than he had ever believed himself to be, and the students proved rewarding, if not occasionally challenging, in their academic performance and vigor. More than once, he had found himself in the language lab, well into the early hours of the morning, researching material with which he was unfamiliar in order to better facilitate an answer for a student's posed query. Many other instructors, as well, had expressed their admiration for his dedication; apparently, such extra-curricular research was considered "above and beyond"the call of duty.

Though, how anyone could perceive the search for knowledge above and beyond their duty as an instructor, was, indeed, above and beyond Spock's particularly high levels of comprehension.

He was in the middle of a search for additional review material—he had moved much quicker through the materials left by Captain Becker than he had originally anticipated—when a knock interrupted him. The gesture was most unnecessary, since his office door was open as was customary during his published office hours, and he intended to inform his guest accordingly. Lifting his eyes from the screen of his personal computer, he was surprised, however, to see Captain Pike leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest and bearing his usual grin.

"You look like you've made yourself quite at home, Mr. Spock," Pike observed.

Spock stood, nodding to his superior officer. "Captain."

Pike waved a hand dismissively at the formality, and crossed the room to drop rather ungracefully into the chair opposite Spock. "As you were, Spock."

"I have found that I am quite comfortable in such a setting," Spock said in response to the Captain's previous statement. He returned to his chair, but minimized the window on his computer so as to give Pike his full attention. "It has been a pleasant revelation, I must admit."

Pike cast a knowing smile in his direction. "Good. I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Though, I must say, it looks a little bare in here."

Spock followed the captain's glance around the—thankfully, finally—bare walls and over the very few personal items Spock kept on display: a small bookshelf in the corner held various PADDs, which he referenced regularly; atop the bookshelf, in a direct line with the light pouring in through the window, sat the small potted rosebush that his mother had sent for his last birthday; directly above his head, a framed diploma declared S'chn T'gai Spock as an honored graduate of Starfleet Academy.

"I assure you, it is much more agreeable than the previous alternative," Spock commented mildly. Pike chuckled.

"I take it the classes are going well?"

Spock considered his question. As was human custom, it was openly phrased and unquantifiable. "I believe their progress to be satisfactory," he finally decided.

Pike nodded, appeased. "Good. Then you should have no problem with this." He set a PADD, which had so far gone unnoticed by Spock, on the desk between them.

He looked questioningly at the captain as he reached to pick up the device.

"Applications, for the position of Advanced Phonology Aide," he clarified.

"Captain, I am not aware that any such position exists."

Pike smirked. "It does now."

Spock's eyebrow rose. "Please explain."

"Captain Becker has elected medical retirement," Pike expanded, crossing one leg over the other and settling back into his chair. "This, along with the current expansion planned for the communications department, has prompted the Academy to consider the option of student aide positions—two for the xenolenguistics program. One for morphology, the other, phonology. They held a period of open application, and this is what they came up with." He gestured to the PADD. "Four applicants, all extremely well qualified. Cole wants you to interview them, and then submit your selection."

Spock frowned, turning over this new information. "This is most illogical, Captain. As I am merely a temporary substitute, my opinion on the matter should not be regarded."

Captain Pike mirrored Spock's raised eyebrow. "You will, of course, make the most logical selection, won't you Mr. Spock?"

Spock blinked, affronted. To make anything but the most logical selection would be...illogical. He thought this would have been apparent, even to a human. "Of course, given the set perimeters, Sir."

Pike nodded once, satisfied. "Good. Then hop to it, Lieutenant Commander. The board will trust any selection you make." He rapped his knuckles twice on the surface of Spock's desk as he stood. "I've got to run—I have a progress report with Engineering on the status of the _Providence_. Get that submission in as soon as you can."

As quickly and unexpectedly as he had arrived, Captain Pike was gone.

Spock sat back in his chair—a modest, practical one with which he had replaced Captain Becker's frivolous affair of leather and padded upholstery—and considered his new assignment. He was aware of the Academy's plans to expand the communications department. In the school's ninety-four years of existence, it had risen to a level of importance similar to that of engineering. It was an ever growing field, especially xenolinguistics. Upon reflection, hiring student aides did appear to be a logical action.

He absently swiped at the screen of the PADD in his hands, unlocking it. The one folder on its screen was entitled 'Phonology Aide Applications'. He selected it, and waited for the information to load.

He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised to see Nyota Uhura's name as the first on the list.

* * *

Language Lab L125 was silent, save the humming of fifty seven computers and the occasional rustle of a fidgeting body. Spock strolled between the rows of consoles, monitoring as his students completed what would be their last exam before the semester final. His attention was diverted, however, at the appearance of a slender, caramel arm elevated in question. He crossed over to Cadet Uhura's console, and leant closer than was his habit in order to more easily facilitate conversation without disrupting the rest of the class.

"The simulation I'm running is supposed to be Ferengi." Her voice was little more than a breath, and he suppressed a shiver as it caressed the side of his face. "But this wave pattern isn't typical. I'm wondering if somehow it was categorized incorrectly in the system."

Wordlessly, he took her earpiece—carefully avoiding her fingers—and adjusted it to his own ear. She cued the simulation, and he tilted his head, straining to hear the patterns of speech through the manufactured static. He could feel the cadet's gaze trailing over his face, searching for some kind of facial affirmation; he kept his eyes trained carefully on the computer's screen, not trusting himself in such close proximity.

He replayed the simulation three times before reaching an inconclusive decision. "The simulation is programmed for Ferengi," he agreed softly, "and I find no indication otherwise. However, if you are available after class, I will gladly run the recording through a diagnostic."

She nodded, apparently satisfied, and he returned her earpiece. As he straightened to walk away, he felt slightly dizzy. He pulled in a deep breath, and anchored his hands behind his back, a physical manifestation of his mental stabilization. He had spent the last ten days religiously meditating on the increasing strength of his attraction to Cadet Uhura, and though it seemed he was making progress, the progress was small. A tendril of frustration brushed against the back of his conscious mind, and he pushed it down forcefully; it was illogical to berate one's advancement, no matter the degree, when effort was being put forth.

One by one, the cadets finished their exams, submitted them electronically, and rose quietly to leave. He noticed that Cadet Uhura was one of the first to finish, though she remained seated for a further twenty six minutes until the lab had emptied.

"If you would eject your simulation, and bring it to me please, Cadet," Spock instructed, sitting down behind the Linguistic Analyzer. Though he had never used it before, the interface seemed simple enough to navigate. He inserted the cadet's simulation card into the slot provided, and began following the onscreen instructions.

"I'm sorry for keeping you, Lieutenant Commander," she apologized from behind him as he began the analysis on the sample.

"Your apology is unnecessary," he muttered, distracted. A number of command buttons and toggle keys had appeared on the screen; he frowned, unsure of how to proceed.

"I selected Ferengi because I knew it was one of my weaker spots," she continued, reaching around him to key in the correct commands. He leant back, giving way to her obvious expertise with the machine. "But even though I'm not entirely confident with it, I knew that _something_ was off."

She stretched even farther around him, leaning wide over the console. The side of her breast brushed against his shoulder, and he froze, sucking in a breath. She either heard his sharp inhale or felt him tense—or perhaps, the contact caused her discomfort, as well—because in the next second, she had shifted away, murmuring an absent apology. His mouth went dry, the place on his shoulder where she had touched, uncomfortably warm; his pulse beat out a rapid staccato against his ribs, and he fought to control it.

A chime from the computer, signaling the end of the analysis, snapped him back to attention.

Cadet Uhura straightened up, a satisfied smile spreading across her face. "Gaimon," she declared. "The southwestern dialect."

He was impressed, though it would've registered better had she been standing an additional eighteen to twenty three centimeters away. He pulled in an unsteady breath, and searched for something—anything—to diffuse the smothering tension he felt.

"It seems you're making a habit of correcting my mistakes, Cadet." The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to stop them.

In the beat of surprised silence that followed, some part of him realized that this was the second time his voice had taken on a lower, more visceral tone in her presence—curious.

She grinned, letting out a breath of laughter. "A fortunate, though unintentional, occurrence."

He made the mistake of glancing up at her. She was less than fifteen centimeters away, even standing straight, and her eyes were a warm, glowing pool of chocolate, as intoxicating as the source of the metaphor itself. The smile froze on her face, and gradually began to loose its intensity, in miniscule increments; though her outward facade appeared perfectly calm, he heard her heart rate increase.

He swallowed, a strange physical reaction. It proved enough of a distraction to break the hypnosis. He tore his gaze away from hers and back down to the computer console. He could feel the flush on the tips of his ears, high in his cheekbones, and wondered if she could see the greenish cast to his skin, if it made him seem even more alien to her.

He was being ridiculous. He needed to regain control of himself, and quickly.

"Would you be available to come by my office tomorrow afternoon at sixteen hundred hours?" His voice was hoarse; he swallowed again.

Cadet Uhura blinked, three times in quick succession. She took a step back, and cleared her throat. "Sure. Yes. Absolutely." She peered at him curiously, though, an expression he identified as curiosity on her face.

"Rear Admiral Cole has requested that I conduct the interview process of the applicants for the position of Advanced Phonology Aide," he clarified, standing. His legs were a little shaky, but he pulled in a breath and tugged on the hem of his coat, and his posture straightened automatically.

Understanding lit her eyes, and though he detected a faint blush in her cheeks, she did not lower her gaze. "Of course. Thank you, sir."

Snapping a quick salute, she turned on one heel and was across the room and out the door in less than five seconds. He listened to her footsteps descend the stairs, and allowed himself a small, barely audible sigh.

It appeared he was, as the saying went, back to the drawing board.

* * *

Spock returned to his quarters, in need of meditation, but tranquility eluded him. Finally resigning himself to the fact that he would be neither sleeping nor meditating, he rose and began searching his apartment for something to occupy his mind.

He was waist deep in a power generator when his mother's number flashed on his comm unit. Frowning—it was his mother's custom to call every Sunday evening at nineteen hundred hours; it was four hundred hours on a Tuesday morning—he extracted himself from the fried wires of the generator to open a connection.

"Did I wake you?"

The first words out of his mother's mouth brought a wry smile to his lips. As he was clad in regulation coveralls, grease peppering his hands and face, it should've been obvious that he had not been woken by her call. Observation and deductive reasoning, however, had never been Amanda Grayson's strengths.

"No, Mother," he answered, allowing amusement to color his tone. He could see her on the viewscreen, seated on the eastern balcony of his home in _Shi'Khar_. Over her left shoulder, a rosebush was in full bloom, and he could very faintly see the outline of the morning sun peeking over her right. The sight shot a pang of homesickness through his chest.

"Why are you not still in bed?" He frowned; his mother was by no stretch of the imagination an early riser.

Her wrist flicked dismissively on its way up to brush a wayward curl from her eyes. "Your father had to leave early for a meeting at the Embassy. I couldn't get back to sleep."

She took a long draw of something from a mug—tea, more than likely, though she preferred coffee. She settled back into her chaise and sighed a little, content. Seeing her in such a manner—clad in a sheer ivory nightdress, a heavy embroidered shawl wrapped tightly round her shoulders, ebony curls free of their restrictive headscarf—it struck him how young she appeared, so childlike in her doe eyes and slender limbs and delicate features, despite her nearly fifty years. The homesickness was suddenly painful.

"Was there a purpose for your early morning wake up call, or did you merely wish to 'shoot the breeze'?" he teased, trying in vain to diffuse the knot in his chest with humor. She didn't take the bait as he'd hoped she would, though, wrinkling her nose and poking out her tongue. Instead, she smiled gently and raised a hand to stroke the surface of her PADD, as if touching his simulated image would somehow soothe the both of them. Illogically, it seemed to work.

"There is never an inappropriate time for a mother to call and check in on her son."

He inclined his head in acquiescence.

"There is also," she continued, the beginnings of a good-natured glare crinkling the edges of her eyes, "never an inappropriate time for said son to come visit his poor, lonely mother."

He cocked an eyebrow, and she mirrored the gesture.

"In other words, when are you coming to see me?"

"You are aware that the academic year ends in eight days." Though he didn't phrase it like a question, she nodded in confirmation. "In nine days, I will be at your disposal."

Her face lit up, erupting into a glow so luminous, it rivaled the sunrise behind her. A warmth spread through his stomach at the sight.

"I'll book the first shuttle out of San Francisco Thursday morning."

Her dark eyes sparkled, and it melted his tension, if only for a few moments. "As you wish, Mother."

She narrowed her gaze at him, and chided, "Don't you pretend that you aren't just as excited to see me as I am to see you. You don't fool me, _Spok-ham_."

He found, as he often did when dealing with his mother, that he could not deny her.

He fell into bed three quarters of an hour later, more relaxed than he had been in weeks, and when he slept, he dreamt of smooth brown hands and black curls and jasmine, and a voice that whispered his name, over and over.

* * *

"_...but it's surprising how often they head in your direction."_

Anonymous

* * *

_por'sen—_emotion

_olozhika—_logic

_t'san t'sat wuh'wak lu'ken-_tor—loosely translates to "emotional control is only achieved when the emotion is understood"

_Spok-ham—_a pet name, diminutive of "Spock"; "little Spock"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Three**_

_(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)_

"_Your vision will become clear_

_only when you can look into your own heart..."_

* * *

The door to his office slid shut behind Cadet Morrison, and Spock allowed himself a small sigh. It was only just barely sixteen hundred hours, and already he was exhausted. He had spent the last six hours interviewing cadets for the position of Advanced Phonology Aide, per Rear Admiral Cole's request, and he could certainly see why each of the three cadets were qualified for a position in the communications department; they all had a particular affinity for excessive conversation.

Spock glanced down at the clock again. It read fifteen fifty three.

It was by pure coincidence that Cadet Uhura's interview had fallen latest in the day. Her name was, after all, last alphabetically. Spock had a nagging inclination—if his previous encounters with her were to be any sort of indication—that her interview would be the most wearisome of the four. 'The best for last', as his mother would often wryly say.

Indeed.

He loitered perhaps a moment too long on his way to the door, but he felt justified. His reactions to Cadet Uhura seemed to have been growing exponentially in their intensity—something that teetered on the edge of propriety. He thought back with chagrin on the previous day's encounter with her in the language lab. There was a line between experiencing emotion and letting emotion dictate actions, a line that he had toed carefully for the entirety of his life. It was a line of which he had found it increasingly necessary to remind himself in recent days. He had obligations—to Starfleet as an instructor, to T'Pring as a bondmate, to his father's people, _his _people, as an upstanding citizen. He could not allow physical attraction to a human female to tarnish any one of those obligations.

Satisfied that he would be able to maintain an adequate measure of professionalism, he opened the door. "Cadet Uhura."

As usual, she flashed him a bright smile as she passed. "Good afternoon, Lieutenant Commander."

"Good afternoon," he responded in kind. As a child, he had found such pleasantries to be unnecessary and redundant. As an adult, his view of them had changed little, though his dual upbringing, in correlation with his father's position as a diplomat, had granted him some measure of hospitality above the level typically possessed by Vulcans in interactions with humans.

"How are you?" she asked as they took their seats.

He took a moment to consider her question. Unlike most humans, whom he had found seemed to breezily disregard the query and respond with an ambiguous "fine", he preferred to answer truthfully.

"Fatigued," he finally decided. "As you would say, I believe, it has been a 'long day'."

She grinned. "Julie Morrison has a way of wearing you out, doesn't she?"

He raised an eyebrow. He was required to keep a certain level of confidentiality regarding the interview process, but he found himself wholeheartedly agreeing with her observation.

"I have never had the fortune to encounter such a human before. Her mannerisms are quite fascinating," he said truthfully.

She mirrored his gesture, and he wasn't sure if it was natural or meant in jest. "I think the word you're looking for is 'irritating', sir. Possibly 'grating'."

A warm tendril of amusement curled in his stomach. "I regret I cannot make any further comment on the matter, Cadet."

She laughed, a warm bubbling sound that tilted her head back, and he found some small measure of pride in the fact that his eyes did not immediately move to trace the curve of her throat. "All right," she conceded, "I get it. I'll be good now."

Seeing this as an opportunity to segway into the interview, he pulled up Cadet Uhura's information on his PADD. Starfleet required that he confirm all of her personal information—again, redundant and illogical; one could simply look the information up in the student databases—so he began parroting back the details which she herself had supplied. "Uhura, Nyota Inaya. Date of birth, Stardate 2233.37, Nairobi, Kenya, United Federation of Africa." Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her nodding, and he continued. "A 2252 graduate of Aga Khan Academy, where you possessed a four point zero grade point average, and a 2255 graduate of Kenyatta University, where you maintained a three point eight five grade point average and from where you obtained a Bachelor's of Science degree in Communications. You are currently classified as a first year cadet in the Xenolinguistics Department, with a current grade point average of four point zero, and are on an accelerated track to graduate Starfleet Academy in the spring of 2258, and enter into an active duty assignment in Starfleet. You have a scholarship contract which requires a minimum of five years of military service."

He glanced up for confirmation, and she nodded once more. "Yes sir."

He scrolled past her application, moving on to her resume. "You are the Vice President of Starfleet Academy's Chorale Ensemble, President and co-founder of the Starfleet Academy African Student Association, a member of the Lambda Pi Eta Sorority, and a student ambassador for the Academy." He quirked an eyebrow. "Is there anything I did not mention?"

She held back a grin with difficulty. "No, sir."

Spock returned the PADD to his desk top, no longer needing it as a reference. "Your character references also stated that you provide tutoring for other linguistics students. Why was this not enumerated in your resume?"

She appeared surprised; he inferred that she was unaware of the contents of her letters of recommendation. "I don't really tutor them, sir. They just...come to me with questions, and I answer them."

Spock cocked an eyebrow. "Is that not considered tutoring?"

She flushed. "I suppose so, sir. Yes. I just never thought of it that way. It's mostly simple stuff that I help them with, basic morphology and syntax, some vocabulary."

Her humility both pleased and impressed him. It was not a quality he expected in someone who possessed as many accomplishments as she. "You have quite an extensive list of extra-curricular activities, Cadet. A position such as this is considered by many to be time-consuming."

She understood the trajectory of his argument without further prompting. Frowning, she said slowly, "The limits of one's language are the limits of their world. I guess I just want to make sure everyone's world is as big as it can be." She looked up at him and met his eyes. "It's a big universe out there, Lieutenant Commander. There are lots of things we have left to discover, lots of things we've discovered that we're still learning more about. But discoveries aren't simply scientific. For each new life form that we encounter, we also encounter a new culture, and you can't fully appreciate a culture without fully understanding the way the culture communicates. You have to not only understand the grammar and the syntax and the vocabulary, but you also have to understand the origin of the language, where it _comes_ from." She lifted a hand and pressed it against her chest, and he realized that she wasn't speaking about purely geographical location.

"You are proficient in sixty four per cent of Federation Languages, Cadet," he pointed out, unconsciously leaning towards her. "Do you presume to fully understand twenty nine cultures, the majority of which you have never personally encountered?"

She smiled, a wry gesture that curled up one corner of her mouth and narrowed her eyes. "Proficiency is not mastery, Lieutenant Commander. I would never presume to be entirely knowledgeable about any culture. But I understand where they come from. I understand the glue that holds them together. And that's the first step. A little bit of understanding gets you a long way with a lot of people."

She settled back in her chair, crossed one slender leg over the other, and he realized with a start that she had spoken her piece. The clock read sixteen oh seven.

He blinked. "Fascinating."

She grinned at him quizzically, and asked, "What?"

He hesitated, unsure that he should share the thoughts occupying his mind. It was clear to him after a mere seven minutes that she was the preferred choice for the position, and the conviction of his decision was troubling. Was there a possibility that he was letting bias cloud his judgment?

"I have spent six hours of my day," he began slowly, carefully, "listening to three other students expand on the reasons they believe themselves to be the best candidate. I have heard speeches on topics ranging from the effects of multilingualism on childhood development to the importance of stylized effective communication."

"It sounds like some people need to start practicing what they preach if it took them two hours to say that," she interjected, eyes dancing with amusement.

He stopped short; there was no need to continue his statement. Instead, he finished lamely with, "You will be informed two weeks before the start of the next academic semester of either your consequent acceptance or rejection. Thank you for your time, Cadet."

He would've expected any other human to be affronted at his abrupt end to the conversation. Instead, Cadet Uhura's smile softened, her eyes warming into that liquid pool of-

Spock forced his gaze away. He could not let her best him again.

"Thank _you_, Lieutenant Commander. Have a good rest of the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

He simply inclined his head. As she left, he fought the illogical urge to watch her walk away.

* * *

_His fist comes up to block his face, the blow stinging against his wrist. He spins, swinging, sidestepping into the dance he knows like the back of his hand: jab, jab, hook, circle, kick, feint...jab, hook, kick, circle, kick, jab. And again. _

_ The simulation progresses in skill level with him, and it isn't long before sweat is streaming down his face and neck and back. He breathes in and out, letting the breaths flow with his punches, smooth and unyielding. _

_ He is unable to meditate. He had tried, and it had failed. He can remember only two other occasions in his twenty seven years during which such a phenomenon had occurred. _

_ He is unable to sleep. His dreams are haunted by _her—_by her smell and her face and the touch of her fingers and the brush of her breast. He has not slept in nearly five days, and he is so happy—so relieved—that he only has to be strong for two more days. _

_ In two days, he will be on a shuttle to Vulcan. In two days he will be sixteen lightyears away from Nyota Uhura. In two days, he will be able to go back to his normal life, and forget she ever even existed. _

_ Except, Vulcans don't forget. _

_ And he doesn't _want _to forget._

_ The thought comes on forcefully, unbidden and unwanted, and he hits harder, panting. The simulation whirls around him, jumping forward when he pulls back, twisting when he turns. He catches sight of the projected image, and stops abruptly. The holo gazes right back at him, with his own eyes, and a chill runs down his spine. _

_ His image has been superimposed over the simulated figure—no doubt enabled by the computer system's most recent update—and the sight is more than a little unsettling. He can feel the hair sticking to his forehead, the moisture seeping through his robe, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. The figure in front of him shows no signs of distress; his hair is perfectly in place, breathing even, robe unrumpled. _

_ He is fighting himself. _

_ He is fighting passionately against his inherent human nature, but he has no misconceptions of which half his own body represents. _

_ Next to the picture of perfect control, he feels ashamed of his heavy breathing, of the slight tremble in his hands, of the burn of emotion, hot and suffocating, in the back of his throat. _

_ With a guttural cry, his arm comes up, and he beats and he beats and he beats and then he is left standing there all alone, shoulders slumped._

_ In order to overcome the imperfections of Vulcan control, he had to fall back on human barbarism. _

_ The irony is not lost on him. _

_He grabs a towel and turns of the lights and slams the door on the way out._

* * *

It was not Spock's habit to frequent Terran bars, but as it was his last night in San Francisco, in addition to representing the culmination of his short three weeks as instructor, he had allowed himself to be talked in to accompanying Captain Pike.

By the time the two men arrived at The Milky Way Bar, the night's festivities were already in full swing. There was a small stage in the corner, which housed a three piece band and karaoke equipment. Small circular tables were arranged around the perimeter of a large open expanse of floor, upon which several people were dancing. Along one wall ran a bar, at which there were placed several intermittent screens broadcasting various televised sporting events. It was here that Captain Pike chose to sit.

"Bartender!" the captain called, waving over a young Tellerite in an apron. "I'd like a Budweiser classic. Spock?"

Spock scanned the list of drinks available. "As I am unfamiliar with the majority of these beverages, I will defer to your better judgment."

Pike grinned. "He'll have a Romulan Ale."

The bartender nodded, and turned to prepare their drinks. Spock watched him, mildly curious. "You are well aware that alcohol has no effect on Vulcan physiology, Captain."

"It's not about getting drunk, Spock," Pike said, accepting his bottle and taking a swig. "It's about the sport."

Spock raised an eyebrow as he brought the mug of ale to his lips. The liquid was bitter, and it burned the back of his throat when he swallowed, but it was not altogether unpleasant. "I was unaware that we were engaging in competition."

Pike laughed. "Are you kidding? I can hold my liquor pretty damn well, but I'd be crazy to try and go up against you. I've heard stories about your days as a cadet, Mr. Spock." He waggled his eyebrows in a manner than was strongly suggestive—not to mention it looked ridiculous. "I have to say, I never would've expected it from you."

Spock was aware of the particular incident to which Pike was referring. He had once, during his third year as a cadet, drained an entire keg on his own—purely for the sake of experimentation. It was an event that had gained a considerable amount of infamy over the years.

"I believe the saying is, Captain," Spock responded dryly, "'when in Rome, do as Romans do'."

The captain grinned. "And I suppose now that you're leaving 'Rome', you'll return to your straight-laced Vulcan self?"

"I have never been considered 'straight-laced' by Vulcan standards," Spock assured him. He didn't get the chance to elaborate on the subject, as a particularly rowdy gaggle of cadets swept into the pub and pressed against the bar, calling for drinks. Captain Pike and Spock maneuvered their way awkwardly through the pushy group, and found refuge at an empty table in the corner.

"There are lots of reasons I didn't go into teaching," Pike said as he scowled over at the cadets. "But that's a big one."

Spock regarded the group as he took another drink of his ale. He recognized several faces from his classes. "I find their company much more pleasant in an academic environment," he agreed.

A comfortable silence fell between the two as Spock allowed his gaze to travel across the bar, observing. The band had evacuated the stage, presumably in order to obtain drinks, and overhead speakers blasted a loud, electronic melody; the pounding bass shook the glasses on the tables. The song seemed to be a crowd favorite, though—as soon as it had come on, there had been an overall rush to the dance floor.

"The board approved the crewlist for the new flagship," Pike said after a few minutes.

Spock turned to him, eyebrows inching up in surprise. The subject of the _USS Enterprise _had been a rather testy one of late. The Starfleet Board of Reagents seemed to be split right down the middle on most of the major issues surrounding its commissioning. Some wanted only the newest, most innovative technology; others preferred the older, more "tried and true" systems. In some cases, they seemed to favor a younger, more vivacious crew; in others, they deemed older, more experienced officers necessary. Spock was sure the approval of the crew lists had been only marginal, and rife with contention. "Pleasing news."

Pike nodded. "Sure is. It's about time they made up their minds on something."

Spock thought back to the last draft of the suggested crew list that Pike had submitted, the one on which the captain had requested his input. It was a diverse blend of both senior officers and new graduates, from a variety of backgrounds and concentrations, but there were still quite a few holes. Pike had yet to decide on his choice of first officer, and he had purposely left free space on the roster for cadet assignments.

"They're set to begin division training in five weeks."

"The training of such an extensive roster is sure to span quite a length of time," Spock commented.

Pike leaned forward, elbows on the table, and opened his mouth to speak. He hesitated, though, and Spock felt a twinge of dry apprehension. The last time the captain had exhibited such behavior, Spock had ended up filling in as an instructor.

"You see," he finally said, "the thing is, the _Providence_ is set to leave two weeks before training begins."

Spock felt his brow draw together in a frown. Pike was slotted to be the Captain of the _Enterprise_, but his duties aboard the _Providence_ remained incomplete. It was a problematic situation, to be sure. "I see."

"And even though there are several well-qualified people to oversee the training in my place," Pike continued, "I can't think of anyone more qualified than the ship's first officer."

Spock frowned, comprehension evading him. "Indeed, Captain, though I see no reason that this pertains to me-"

"Now, I know you're set to go back out with us on the _Providence_, but I can find someone else to be Chief Science Officer." He paused, shooting Spock a meaningful look. "It's a little bit harder to find someone I'd like more than you as my second in command."

Spock blinked—once, twice, three times. He replayed the captain's words in his mind. Pike was asking him to be the second in command, the first officer, of Starfleet's newest ship, the new poster of the Federation?

Pike was grinning. "I know it's a lot to drop on you all at once. I was supposed to wait 'til you got back from Vulcan, but I just couldn't."

Spock was still speechless. "Captain, I—I..."

It was as close to stuttering as Spock had ever come.

Pike laughed, slapping a hand down on Spock's shoulder. "Take some time, think it over. Do your Vulcan meditation thing, or whatever it is you do. A flow chart, whatever. Give me a call when you get back, and let me know."

True to Vulcan form, the only thing he could think to respond with was a statistic: "Captain, should I accept your offer, I would become the youngest First Officer in Starfleet History."

The captain sat back, still grinning. "You sure as hell would, Spock."

* * *

"_...who looks outside, dreams._

_Who looks inside, awakens."_

Carl Jung

* * *

**Author's Notes: **I just wanted to take a moment to thank everyone so much for their interest so far; the amount of views _Dahsau_ has gotten has absolutely blown me away! And to those who have reviewed—a special thank you. Your kind words are especially flattering.

A note on Uhura's age: Many people write their S/U origins fics with Uhura being fresh from high school, or secondary school, in her second or third year as a cadet, which would put her between nineteen and twenty one. I have a hard time swallowing that. Especially considering it would mean a seven to nine year age difference between her and Spock. I tried it that way, and then just had to go back and fix it. It wasn't something that sat well with me, or with the tone of the story. So here, if you do the math, her age figures out to be around 22 or 23, with a three to four year age gap. This would put her somewhere in the graduate studies range, which, is plausible for Starfleet—anyone recall Leonard McCoy, who, though a full medical doctor, attended Starfleet Academy?

Anyway. If it makes you uncomfortable, I'm sorry, but I try not to get too much into the little picky details. They're not that essential to the development of the plot, anyhow. Just one of the many creative liberties I've taken.

Another note, this one on holodecks: Someone pointed out to me that the idea of Spock actually hitting a physical figure during his sparring match was unlikely. However, if you'll reference old NG episodes, the holodeck aboard the _Enterprise_ created entire worlds. You could swim, dance, get shot—the whole nine. So I figured my idea of them wasn't that far off.

Also, the number of federation languages—forty-five—came directly from the Star Trek Wiki

Uhura's statement during her interview isn't mine, either; it belongs to Ludwig Wittgenstein. An interesting guy to look into, if you've got spare time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: **Greetings! Whew—this last month has been a doozy. Finals, graduations, birthdays, holiday weekends—they've all done their best to keep me from my computer. But now that summer is here, I'm back in the saddle once more. This chapter was difficult to write—has anyone ever tried writing Vulcans in their native habitat?-so I'm hoping you all enjoy. Leave me a review and let me know if it lived up to your expectations. Good news is that I've managed to finish not only this chapter, but also the next, so as soon as I give it another rough look over and get it formatted, it'll be up too.

Also, I would like to dedicate this chapter to all the families, friends and victims of the May 20, 2013 tornado in Moore, Oklahoma. Just seventy miles up the interstate from my hometown, the devastation in Moore hit, literally and figuratively, very close to home. May this chapter of homecoming serve as a comfort to anyone who was affected by this terrible tragedy, and may my fellow Oklahomans forever remain Oklahoma Strong.

* * *

_**Four**_

_(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)_

"_Coming back is the thing that enables you _

_to see how all the dots in your life are connected, _

_how one decision leads you another, _

_how one twist of fate, good or bad, brings you to a door_

_that later takes you to another door..."_

* * *

The shuttle door opened, and Spock was once again hit with the ocher of his home planet. Everywhere he looked, he saw the burnt orange; it was as though he was viewing the landscape through tinted lenses.

He stepped off the shuttle and flipped the wide collar of his tunic up against the whipping sand in the same movement. Almost unconsciously, he felt the transparent third lid of his eye slide into place, protecting the delicate cornea. If he had been any more human, the heat would've been oppressive. As it was, he sunk into it, letting out a small sigh of contentment. He had forgotten just how cool and humid Earth was in comparison.

In the distance, he saw the lone figure of his father's assistant, Somal, standing next to one of his family's hovercars. He collected his luggage from the belly of the shuttle, and made his way in that direction.

"_Osu_ _Spokh_," Somal greeted, bowing his head at Spock's approach. Spock raised his hand in the typical Vulcan greeting.

"Somal," he greeted, slipping easily into his native tongue. "I trust you are well."

"Yes," Somal responded in kind, taking Spock's suitcase from him. "Was your flight comfortable, _Osu_?"

"Sufficient," Spock replied.

Somal held the hovercar door open for Spock, and once he was seated, walked around to the opposite side to take his own seat behind the wheel.

"Where is my mother?" Spock asked as Somal smoothly maneuvered the hovercar into the flow of traffic.

"_T'sai_ elected to remain in _D'H'riset_, _Osu_. She awaits your arrival there."

Spock supposed that was the most logical course of action for his mother to take. Amanda had a tendency to become rather flamboyant in her displays of affection towards him—especially when she hadn't seen him in nearly three years, as was the case. Better to contain the emotional display to their own home. Still, he felt a small surge of disappointment; he could not deny that seeing her was his primary motivation in returning to Vulcan.

It was a mere twenty minute drive from the center of Shi'kahr to the outskirts, where his father's estate was located. From nearly a mile away, Spock could see the walls surrounding the property. As the hovercar approached, the gates rolled back automatically, and Somal pivoted the car around to the front of the house. Almost before the brake was engaged, Spock had opened the door and started up the front steps.

"Spock!"

The front doors of the house had been flung wide in expectation of his arrival, and he could see his mother, hurrying through the foyer as he approached. She reached him just as he stepped over the threshold, her small frame colliding bodily with his. Automatically, his arms came up to catch her, cradling her to him in an embrace. Her own arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders.

"Oh, Spock." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, but he could hear the catch of emotion. He had no doubt that when he pulled away, tears would be streaming down her cheeks.

She held him for what seemed simultaneously forever and not long enough. When she did release him, he saw that his prediction was correct; her eyes glistened in the dim light of the corridor, but she managed a watery smile. She raised a hand to his cheek, running her thumb in a soothing pattern across his cheekbone.

"It's been too long, my son."

He placed his own hand over hers, and felt a connection spark between them. A smile spread wide across her face; though she maintained an active psi-bond with his father, her bond with him, as a result of her human heritage, was considerably weaker. Whereas he could access his father's thoughts and feelings at any point, he often required physical contact to do so with his mother. It was something he had shied away from as he had grown older, and he knew how much she cherished the gesture.

A fresh batch of tears tumbled down her face, though he knew from experience that these were 'happy tears', as she called them.

"It is regretful," he agreed softly, gently untangling himself from her grasp. "But I am here now."

"You're right." Amanda straightened, wiping a hand quickly across her face. "Thank you," she told Somal, voice considerably stronger, as he passed with Spock's luggage.

Spock stepped farther into his childhood home, unwinding his outer tunic to hang it on a peg next to the door; a shower of sand fell onto the floor.

"So," Amanda said brightly, seemingly ignorant of the mess. "What do you want to start with? You could go up and take a nap if you're tired, or I've got some fruit prepared for you in the kitchen. We could go into the lounge and read, or play chess if you'd like. You haven't touched your _ka'athyra_ in a while."

Spock felt the corners of his mouth quirk up; his mother's enthusiasm was infectious. "What would you have me do, Mother?"

Her eyes brightened, and she looped her arm through his. "Come let me feed you."

"As you wish."

He escorted her through the halls of the house listening in amusement as she babbled on.

"You know, that's one thing I didn't think I would miss," she said. "I _hated_ cooking—always did. _Especially_ Vulcan cooking. It's so precise, and the ingredients are so foreign. But after you left, and it was only your father and I, I realized how much I missed it. I missed getting up to make you breakfast in the morning, or having a snack waiting for you in the afternoon."

"As did I," he informed her wryly. "Starfleet Academy's dining facilities are a poor substitute for a home cooked meal."

She laughed, and he basked in the sound; a communicator didn't do it justice.

The corridor opened into a large kitchen, ceilings soaring high overhead, and Spock followed Amanda over to a bar. He took his customary seat on the first stool—where he had always taken each meal, save dinner—and surveyed the assortment of available fruit. There were small, plump _hirats_ and juicy _kaasas, _pulpy _narics_, and sweet _pla-savas_. Spock picked up a fork and speared a grape-like _hirat_ before bringing it to his lips.

Amanda bustled around the kitchen, retrieving a glass from the cabinet, and filling it with homemade _sheekuya na'an_. She set the glass on the counter in front of him, and he took a long drink of the orange-mint tea. It was rare to come across such a fine brew on Earth. She leant against the counter, watching him with soft eyes.

"Your grandmother is coming to dinner," she finally told him.

He paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and his eyes flicked up to hers.

"She wished to see you," she answered his unspoken question with a shrug. "Who am I to tell her no?"

Spock perched the utensil on the edge of his plate, _kaasa_ still on the tines. "And my father?"

She sent him a look that was both scolding and exasperated. "Of course your father will be at dinner. Don't be dense. He wouldn't miss it."

Spock raised an eyebrow, a silent challenge, and she studiously ignored it. He returned to his fruit, taking the _kaasa_ into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. He had not seen his paternal grandmother in person in—he did a quick mental count—the seven years that had passed since his departure for Starfleet. She had sent him one brief congratulatory message upon his graduation from the Academy; it had been thirty seven seconds long and entirely obligatory.

"Hey."

His mother's arm around his shoulder, as much as her voice, broke him from his thoughts. He turned his head to look at her.

"You're thinking too much. Stop it."

"You know as well as I that I cannot cease mental functioning," he teased, rising from his seat. "If you will excuse me, I will retire to my room until dinner. I feel meditation may be necessary."

Amanda motioned for him to leave with a jerk of her chin. As he turned, he saw her reach down and pick up a slice of _naric_ with her fingers before popping it in her mouth.

He shook his head, struggling to suppress a smile.

* * *

Spock stood just inside the front door, to the left of his mother, and fidgeted.

He had not fidgeted in ten point seven years.

Amanda reached over, squeezing his fingers surreptitiously, and whispered, "It'll be fine, Spock. Just relax."

He allowed her calm to flow through him and still his movements. "'Fine' has variable definitions," he replied softly, and she snorted at the joke. "'Fine' is unacceptable."

The purr of a hovercar approached the house, and Amanda stepped forward to open the door. Spock watched as the formidable profile of his grandmother appeared from inside the car. For a woman nearing one hundred and twenty years of age, she seemed in impeccable health. She stood tall and proud, towering over Amanda, the only signs of her maturity visible in the lines around her eyes and the streaks of gray woven through her otherwise dark hair.

"_T'sai _T'Pau," Amanda greeted, bowing respectfully. "Welcome to our home."

"Thank you, Amanda."

T'Pau gracefully ascended the stairs, and once she was inside, Spock stepped forward to take the cloak from her shoulders. "_Ko-mekh'il_," he greeted.

"_Spokh." _

She swept down the corridor, and Amanda hurried after her. Spock fell into step behind them both. "You'll have to excuse Sarek, _T'sai_," his mother said. "A meeting kept him long. He will be joining us shortly. Would you care for a drink?"

The half hour before his father arrived was nearly painful. Spock and his grandmother sat stiffly on opposite sofas in the lounge, as his mother made every effort to accommodate their guest. T'Pau was not one for conversation; she merely observed Spock through dark, emotionless eyes. His agitation grew as the time passed.

If he had thought the arrival of his father would remedy the discomfort, he was sorely mistaken. Sarek marched purposefully into the room twenty minutes after their meal was scheduled to begin, and very nearly stopped short when he saw Spock. Spock felt his surprise, and got the distinct impression that his father had not been expecting him. He turned a pointed look towards his mother, who artfully avoided his gaze and ushered everyone along into the dining room.

The four of them sat round a long, rectangular table, with T'Pau and Sarek at either end, and Spock and Amanda opposite each other. Two maids served the various courses, and no one—not even his mother—attempted conversation until well into the third course.

"Spock, you will be interested to learn that I have recently been in contact with T'Pring."

Five pairs of eyes—including those of the maids—turned and focused on Spock. Struggling to keep his face absolutely clear, he inclined his head politely. "Indeed. I trust she is well."

The focus shifted back to T'Pau, who remained stoic. "She wishes to meet with you during your stay here. I told her that I would speak with you, and then arrange a meeting."

Spock felt a flare of surprise, though he didn't let it show. He had not seen T'Pring in nearly twenty years; it'd been seven since he'd even spoken with her. He wondered what could be so consequential that she would request an audience.

"Certainly, _ko-mekh'il_. My schedule is at your disposal."

T'Pau nodded once, satisfied. "I will organize an acceptable time and place, and will inform you of the details at a later date."

"That would be satisfactory."

There was no further conversation.

It was no small blessing, Spock thought, when his grandmother politely refused the game of chess offered by his father and instead opted to return to her home. Spock, along with his mother and father, accompanied her to the door, where he helped her once more with her cloak.

There was a beat of silence after the door shut behind her before Sarek, who had yet to cast Spock a third glance, turned on his heel and was gone, robes billowing out behind him as he stalked down the hallway. His mother made a soft noise of protest, and moved as though to follow him, but seemed to think better of it.

"He was surprised to see me earlier," Spock commented.

Amanda turned to face him, her eyes wide and dark and full of a sadness that Spock was fully able to comprehend.

"I thought it best," she answered his unspoken question. "He is your father, but..." She trailed off, glancing back over her shoulder. "I have to live with him."

A fissure of pain crackled through his chest, and he must've let it show on his face, because she stepped towards him, reaching out a hand. He intercepted her, though, squeezing her fingers gently as he pushed her away.

"I am tired," he told her simply, offering more honesty to her than he would to anyone else. "I would like...to be alone."

He could tell she was upset, but she nodded, dropping her gaze to the floor.

He turned and walked the opposite direction.

* * *

_ His steps echo against the flagstone of the corridor. The house is old—it has belonged to the S'chn T'gai clan for more than fifteen hundred years—and the walls are decorated with the carvings and characters of the Surakian period. His mother frequently refers to them as 'beautiful', and 'ornate'; he cannot say that he disagrees. _

_ His feet carry him through the house, unbidden, and he lets his mind wander as freely as his gaze. It's a strange sensation, returning home after a seven-year absence—almost bittersweet. Everywhere he looks, there is a memory._

_ There—he and Sybok had broken that window with a rogue _lirpax_. And here—he had once tripped over a rug and careened head-first into this bust; it had been his first experience with a dermal regenerator. This room had been reserved for his private studies; this one, his training on the ka'athyra. This was the corridor where he had first heard his parents quarrel, the room where he had watched his older brother crumple to the ground in tears after hearing of his biological mother's death._

_ He pauses outside that particular door. Even then, at the age of twelve, Sybok had exhibited signs of the _V'tosh ka'tur_. _

_ He turns, and is startled by the sight of a bench—he had not realized that he'd come so far. _

_ Slowly, he approaches the bench, and sinks down gingerly onto its unyielding seat. His eyes drift closed, and he is once again eleven, a bruise blooming green across his cheekbone, a trickle of blood seeping from a split in his lip. _

_ His tongue darts out to feel the familiar scar. _

_ He remembers watching his parents as they spoke farther down the hall, too far away for him to clearly make out anything other than his mother's angry hisses and his father's measured monotone. He remembers her derisive snort and the sharp staccato of her retreating footsteps, his father's narrowed, speculative gaze as he watched her go. And then the shifting of the bench as his father had joined him, the soft words that had been spoken in reproach. _

_ He remembers the guilt that came with the knowledge that he should regret his actions and the realization that he didn't, that he still does not._

_ Abruptly, he stands._

_ His steps trace a familiar pattern up a flight of stairs and to the left, into the first room on the right. His bedroom has remained eerily unchanged, a shrine to his childhood. The bookcases flanking the stone fireplace on the far wall hold mementos from his primary education: medals and plaques awarded for various competitions; materials from past classes, kept for review; holos of milestones in his matriculation. On a stand beside his bed, he keeps a collection of bound books, antique Terran artifacts from his mother. His fingers drift over the spines, and he recalls sleepless nights spent enraptured in the tales of Sherlock Holmes and Oliver Twist. _

_ The desert air is cool on his face as he slips silently out of his bedroom and onto the adjoining balcony. The sun is long set, the only light coming from tiny pinpricks in the inky blanket of sky, and the soft electric glow of Shi'Kahr in the distance. _

_ He leans his forearms against the railing of the balcony, letting his shoulders loosen their tension under the cover of darkness. His mind is abuzz with sensation and emotion, and for a moment, he allows the esthesis free reign. His father's surprise is predominant, his cool air of disapproval and disappointment as tangible and billowing as his Elder's robes, so in contrast to his mother's warmth and vibrancy and life. T'Pring's face is there as well, symmetrical and smooth, visually pleasing as always—though he can't help but admit that he prefers a silky golden glow and the alluring curl of whispering lips—circling around the image of his grandmother, dark eyes unreadable and unfathomable. _

_ The environment is as conflicting and polarized as it was in his childhood, as it has been his entire life. The constant battle between Vulcan and Human, the two halves of him that are equally represented, grows wearisome, not for the first time. He yearns for a console on a bridge, for the familiar grooves of scanners and tricorders beneath his fingers. He is not the diplomat his father is; his first love is science, and though he was raised with impeccable etiquette, the charade is tiresome after seven years of spoiled independence. _

_ He remembers back to the days of his youth, to the time when his family was still intact, to the time when he can recall the glimmer of pride that had appeared periodically in his father's eye. _

_ But those times are long gone, disappeared into the dust with the man whom he once called brother, and as it is illogical to dwell on them, to paint them into a rosier picture, he pushes them from his mind, and lets his eyes close against the prickle of whipping sand._

* * *

"_...which aided by several detours-_

_long hallways and unforeseen stairwells-_

_eventually puts you in the place you are now."_

– Ann Patchet

* * *

_Osu—_ Honorific; "Sir"

_T'sai— _Honorific; "Lady"

_D'H'riset— _Sarek's estate

_Ka'athyra— _a Vulcan instrument equivalent to the harp

_Hirat— _grape-like fruit

_Kaasa— _blue-green fruit often made into juice

_Naric— _a fruit similar to an orange

_Pla-sava— _a sweet blue or black colored fruit

_Sheekuya-na'an— _Vulcan beverage described as an orange-mint iced tea, served cold

_Ko-mekh'il— _grandmother

_Lirpax— _a training lirpa

_V'tosh ka'tur— _Vulcans without logic; they do not disagree with Surak's teachings, but rather how the Elders interpret them


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Here's another one for you, up quickly this time to make up for the wait on the last chapter. I really appreciate all the feedback I've been getting. I do take the time to read each and every review, even if I don't respond. DM has reached nearly twenty five hundred views over four chapters—incredible!

For those of you who are veteran readers, I went back and made a few tweaks with chapter four. If I were you, I'd go back and do a quick glance over, just for continuity's sake. If you're new, feel free to disregard the previous statements.

I have to say, this chapter is my favorite so far. There's just something about it that makes me smile. I hope you all enjoy it just as much

* * *

_**Five**_

_(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)_

"_When things break,_

_it's not the actual breaking that prevents them_

_from getting back together again..."_

* * *

_ He is seven years old when he meets Nashih T'Pring—old for a child who is only first meeting his bond mate. The subject of his bonding has been a source of discord between his parents, and even as he sits in his _ko-mekh'il_'s meditation room, he can hear them in the hallway, arguing in harsh whispers. _

_ He glances up at her, quickly, out of the corner of his eye. His mother had told him she was 'pretty'. As unquantifiable as the term is, he agrees. Her face has a pleasing symmetry, round dark eyes balanced by a bow mouth, and she carries herself with a distinguished air, even at the tender age of six. Her little chin is lifted high, and she meets _ko-mekh'il_'s gaze evenly. _

_ He drops his eyes back down to the floor, and shifts nervously on his knees. Sybok had teased him when he had admitted anxiety; he had said there was nothing to be worried about, that bonding was natural and easy. _

_ Spock wonders if his human heritage can be considered an unexplored variable in the situation. _

_ Before he has the chance to think any more on the subject, _ko-mekh'il_ sits forward, reaching one hand out towards him, the other towards T'Pring. Obediently, they each turn their faces, and find themselves staring at each other. T'Pring blinks her eyes slowly, and he finds himself wondering what she is thinking. _

_ He supposes he won't have long to wonder. _

Ko-mekh'il_'s fingers are cool and familiar as they press lightly on his temple, his cheekbone, his jaw. He feels the warmth that is her mind ease its way into his, and hears her words both aloud and in his head when she speaks. _

_ "My mind to your mind, my thoughts to your thoughts. _Spokh_, take up your bondmate and be joined with her."_

_ There is a curious sensation, a tingling that runs down the length of his spine, and then he can feel her inside of him—her thoughts, her emotions, her physiological regulatory functions. His heart beats against his ribs, but he can feel another, an echo that is thrillingly foreign. _

_ "Together forever, parted but never separate, two bodies sharing one mind, so shall it be."_

Ko-mekh'il_'s fingers leave his face, her mind retracting from his, but _she _is still there. He feels abnormally...full, and realizes with a start that he will never be lonely inside of his own mind again. _

_ He will always have someone with which to share himself. _

_ He turns to look at her, thrumming with barely concealed excitement, but she is as calm and cool as ever. He feels a wisp of sadness, resignation that isn't his, before the door opens and her attention is elsewhere. _

_ It is something he never feels from her again, but once is enough._

* * *

The road to his grandmother's house was familiar, despite the seven years it had been since he'd last traveled it. Spock guided his hoverbike around the twists and turns of the mountain road with practiced ease. As he drove, he calculated first his total distance traveled, then his average speed of acceleration in an attempt to ease his nerves.

He had read through his grandmother's message with a tight knot in his chest that morning, his eyes passing over her words more times than was necessary for comprehension.

There was only one reason that his bondmate would desire an immediate meeting in the privacy of the home of the Elder who had first bonded them.

The gate at the front entrance of T'Pau's home, much like that of his own, swung open to grant him admittance upon his arrival. He parked the hoverbike at the side of the house, and entered through a servant's door in the southern wing—the door closest to her meditation rooms, where he knew they would be waiting. Maids and butlers scurried out of his way, but he paid them no mind. He reached out to T'Pring, unashamedly using her mental presence as a beacon to guide him through the house.

Neither of the women looked surprised when he entered.

His grandmother appeared as she had the previous week, the only difference being the color of her robes. T'Pring, as well, bore a strong resemblance to the image he held in his mind of the last time he had seen her, via communique, though her face was four millimeters narrower and her hair eight centimeters longer. She kept her eyes trained carefully on her lap.

"_Spokh_," his grandmother greeted. "Come. There is a matter of much importance that must be discussed." She gestured to chair, indicating that he should sit, but he remained standing.

"Pretenses are unnecessary, _ko-mekh'il_," he said, not impolitely. His eyes traveled over T'Pring's form, and he hesitated, continuing softly, "I wish to speak with her alone."

T'Pring gave a short nod at T'Pau's questioning look, and the older woman rose. "I will return in one quarter hour."

He waited until she had disappeared out of a side door to cross the room. He passed T'Pring and stopped in front of a wide window that looked down at Shi'Kahr. For the first time, he felt T'Pring's gaze on his back.

"I do not wish to cause you offense."

The sound of her voice was foreign to him, and he allowed a moment to pass while he considered it. It was high and clear, if not slightly thin, and she spoke with gently accented syllables.

"There is no offense where none is taken," he responded automatically.

She fell silent, and the pause grew unbearably uncomfortable.

Finally, he turned to face her, and found her dark eyes studying him. He had no idea of what she was thinking, and had no desire to press for details.

"You did not choose _kal-if-fee_," he said after a beat. "Why?"

She shifted, clearly uncomfortable with the fact that he deduced the reason for their meeting. "I have no desire to cause you undue stress. Your family has been nothing but gracious to me. However-"

"However, there is nothing for me to prove."

Her shoulders dropped infinitesimally as she met his eyes. "Yes."

He turned back to the window, fighting the acidic taste of bitterness from his mouth. "I have been a negligent mate. It is only logical that you would wish to replace me with someone better suited to your needs."

Her silence was a painful agreement.

There was nothing more to say; he didn't trust himself to keep his logic under such circumstances.

It was only when he heard T'Pau making her way back to the room that he spoke.

"I should hope that your new mate not find that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting."

"It is illogical to hope," she reminded him softly.

He turned his head and looked at her for a long moment, finding himself for the first time completely repulsed by her lack of expression.

"Perhaps," he agreed, acerbity coloring his tone ironic. "It is only a human sentiment, after all."

She had no time to respond before T'Pau reentered, and they shared no more words as his grandmother once again pressed her fingers to the sides of their faces.

* * *

The morning sun was still low in the southern sky when Spock returned. Though he still felt a measure of dissonance, the cool morning air had cleared his mind, and he felt once again firmly in control of himself. He found his mother on her terrace, taking her morning tea and reading the daily news from a worn PADD.

"You're back soon," she remarked, setting aside the PADD as he joined her on a bench. "How was T'Pring?"

He had not told his mother of the location of his and T'Pring's meeting—he had not wished to stress her. He could see the glimmer of excitement in her eyes, now, though, and realized his mistake. She had falsely assumed that T'Pring's eagerness to speak with him in person signified impending matrimonial ceremonies. He was loath to disappoint her.

He let his gaze wander across the horizon, the peaks and crevices of the foothills surrounding his family's home as familiar to him as those of his own body. He was unable to meet his mother's eyes.

"T'Pring is well," he told her, and then after a short hesitation, "as is my grandmother."

He could see the frown of confusion on his mother's face in his periphery. "Your grandmother?" she repeated. "What would T'Pau want with-?"

She stopped suddenly, comprehension striking her, and there was a moment of silence.

"Spock." Her voice shook as her fingers reached out to brush his arm. "Spock, I'm so sorry." She sighed, a long, drawn out exhalation. Spock heard the clink of china as she set her tea to the side, and then there was the warm pressure of her body as she leant against his side. Somehow, her hand found his in the midst of their robes, and she took it in both of hers. It was not until he felt the cool drops of moisture on his skin that he realized she was crying.

"Please do not upset yourself, Mother." He carefully extracted himself from her grasp, and rose, reaching for her teacup. Gently, he told her, "I will return momentarily."

He took her mug into the kitchen and refilled it, pouring one for himself as well. When he reappeared on the terrace two minutes later, his mother had straightened, and though her eyes were red-rimmed, they were mercifully dry. She took the proffered cup with a murmur of thanks.

"I can't help but wish I had fought your father harder," she said after a moment of silence. "He was so adamant, though. He was so sure that it would only benefit you."

"As I recall, you argued your case rather extensively," he countered.

Her lips quirked up in a small, sad smile. "I did," she agreed. "We bickered for almost a year before I finally relented."

A nagging curiosity, one that had never been explained to him, worked its way to the forefront of his mind. "What was your primary objection?"

He studied her closely as she let out a breath of laughter, her eyes roaming up, over the line of the horizon, as she recalled. "Your father insisted that bonding was the way of Vulcans. That it was normal, mundane, even. His people were genetically predisposed to share their thoughts with each other in such an intimate way." Her dark gaze found his, and in them he saw a bittersweet mix of emotion. "I think he sometimes forgets that you're half human, too." She laid a hand, briefly, affectionately, against the side of his face. With a sigh, she turned away once more. "We knew it would be difficult, raising you. You would be caught between two very different worlds. And while we..._intervened_ on some aspects of your biology, in order to ensure your physical health, there was nothing we could do about forming _you—_picking your traits, instilling one certain mindset over another. From the beginning, the essence of who you are has always been a wild card. You have always been, and will always be, completely and totally unique."

She paused to take a sip of tea, and Spock could tell that she was choosing her next thoughts carefully. "I was not optimistic that we would be able to find a mate that would appreciate your more singular aspects."

"It seems you were correct," he said at length.

She laid a hand on his forearm. "I'm sorry."

He opened his mouth to tell her that it was illogical for one to be 'sorry' for a matter in which they had no fault, but he changed his mind at the last second, knowing she was aware of this, and replied simply, "I know."

"Does it hurt?"

He considered her question, aware of the more specific query that her words implied. "I do not notice an acute difference, as I was never closely attuned to her thoughts, but it is a curious sensation. I would imagine that it could be roughly equated with the abstract notion of trying to remember something which has been forgotten. There is no physical pain, though I do feel..." Here, he hesitated, searching for words with which to identify the emotions he was experiencing. "Affronted. Slighted. Some measure of guilt is also present."

She smiled gently, rubbing up and down his arm. "That's normal. It's justified."

He didn't say anything for a long while, letting the silence stretch between them, as comfortable and warming as the glow of the sun and her hand on his shoulder.

* * *

Spock stared down at the PADD in his hands, eyes trained on the revolving picture of Nyota Uhura displayed on the screen. He was still classified as an instructor in Starfleet's database, and as such, he had access to all the profiles of his previous students. What he was doing bordered on the edge of malapropos, but he could not find it within himself to feel guilty. Technically, there was no breach of protocol, and he _was_ curious.

It was only logical to sate one's thirst for knowledge.

He knew so little about her, and yet he was so fiercely intrigued. His gaze roved over her published personal information, which he had memorized in its entirety, and landed on the name of her hometown. He was academically familiar with the history and geography of the United States of Africa, though he had never personally set foot on the continent. As part of his schooling, he had taken a course on Earth Culture and had seen holovids of the different practicing tribes. He wondered to which she belonged, if any; after all, the African States were very much modernized, and he knew there were those city dwellers who were as unfamiliar with the traditional culture as he. He had an unexplainable hunch, however, that this was not the case with Nyota Uhura. Though her mastery of Standard English was flawless, there were times during his short tenure as her instructor where the slight twist of a native accent would appear. His mind's eye pictured her draped in the bright cloths and clinking beads of the indigenous Maasai, long hair twisted up in an elegant headdress.

A soft knock at his door suddenly commanded his attention. He glanced up to see his mother at the threshold.

"Hey." Her voice was soft, sleepy, and she blinked into the light of his room. "What are you doing?"

He stood, ordering the lights at half. "It is late. You should return to bed," he said, delicately hedging her question.

"I will." She stepped farther into the room, contradicting her own words. "I got up to use the bathroom, and saw your light was on. I wanted to make sure you were okay."

He took her arm, gently, when she reached for him, and escorted her over to the divan. He was chagrined to see Cadet Uhura's profile still revolving on the screen of the PADD. His mother noticed, and frowned.

"Who's this?" She picked up the PADD and held the image closer for inspection.

He hesitated. "Her name is Nyota Uhura. She is a candidate for the position of Advanced Phonology Aide. I was merely reviewing her information before I make my final selection."

"And I suppose appearance is an important aspect to consider." He did not miss his mother's sly grin, or the mischievous twinkle in her eye when she glanced up at him. He did, however, deftly ignore them.

"She _is_ very pretty," she said sincerely, regarding the picture once more.

He returned to his previous spot beside her. "She is...an aesthetically appealing individual," he admitted.

She smiled softly, returning the PADD to him. "Is she the one you've decided on?"

He exited out of the cadet's profile, using the delay to formulate his response. "I am still unsure," he finally said, placing the PADD on the low table in front of the divan. "All four applicants were equally qualified."

"But this girl has that little bit of something extra?" his mother guessed with a grin.

He frowned. "That is a most unquantifiable statement." He took a moment to let the phrase roll around in his mind. 'Something extra'-it was frustratingly ambiguous and completely illogical. The sentiment, however, was appropriate. Nyota Uhura did indeed seem to possess some additional appeal over the other three applicants. The troubling matter was that he could not seem to discern if this appeal was based in bias.

He voiced this concern to his mother, whose smile simply grew.

"Sometimes, we just have these gut feelings—instinctual cues," she clarified at his raised eyebrow. "We know inside that something is right, simply because it _feels_ right, and that's the logic of it." She studied him for a moment. "This isn't just about assigning a cadet to a position, is it?"

He blinked, startled as usual by his mother's uncanny ability to unearth the root of his dissonance. "I have," he said slowly, trying to gather his thoughts, "been offered the position of First Officer aboard Starfleet's newest flagship." Her eyes grew wide, but she didn't interrupt, for which he was grateful. "Were I to accept, I would remain in San Francisco to oversee the remainder of the construction of the ship, as well as the division training for the crewmembers. It would only be logical, therefore, to assume the role of instructor for a second term. I am-" he swallowed, feeling the tips of his ears begin to tinge green- "not confident that, should I appoint Cadet Uhura, my...regard for her would remain completely platonic and professional in nature."

He didn't bother admitting that his regard for her wasn't completely platonic and professional to start with; his embarrassment at such a confession was already burning in his face. He refused to meet his mother's eyes.

Which was why he was surprised when he heard her laugh, a low chuckle. "Oh, Spock," she sighed, dropping a hand down onto the base of his neck and rubbing comfortingly. "Would it be such a bad thing if it didn't?"

Her stage-whispered words shocked him, and when she stood a moment later, still chortling, and made her way to the door, he remained frozen, eyes wide.

"Nothing is ever easy with you is it, my son?" she asked when she had reached the doorway. She spared him one last glance, her eyes dancing conspiratorially, before she was gone.

For a long time after she left, her words echoed in his mind, chasing all possibility of sleep from him.

_Would it be such a bad thing if it didn't?_

* * *

"_...it's because a little piece gets lost—_

_the two remaining ends couldn't fit together if they wanted to._

_The whole shape has changed."_

-John Green, David Levithan

* * *

_Ko-mehk'il—_grandmother

_Kal-if-fee_—"act of challenge"; the traditional ritual through which an arranged marriage can be prevented; hand to hand combat between two males

**Author's Note, revisited: **I think I've got all the formatting issues worked out—finally!—so it should now be a much easier read. And a huge thank-you to **Sef** for her consistently wonderful reviews, and for always catching the little things for me. I took some of your suggestions, and hopefully it flows much better now.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **I know, I know, I know-it's been forever since I've updated. I offer my sincerest, meekest apologies. That said, this chapter was a royal pain. I had it done (or mostly done, anyway), and then it didn't flow right, so I went back and did it again. And then, I saw Into Darkness (*insert fangirl squeal here*) and had to reevaluate some of my future plans for the story. So, I ended up writing it again. And let me tell you, the third time is not the charm. It was actually the worst case of writer's block I've ever encountered. Add that to the fact that I'm moving in two weeks (yikes!), and you have this: a chapter that took two months to post.

On the plus side, I've managed to drag my sister over onto the Star Trek fan bandwagon ;)

Please, please, please enjoy-I worked hard on this one, and even though it's short, I still think it's pretty good-and don't forget to drop me a review! And for those of you who are veteran readers and jumped straight to this chapter, you may want to go back and read the end of chapter five. I made a few nips and tucks, for which the credit goes to **Sef's **wonderful reviews and insight.

* * *

_**Six**_

_(Ma'bezhun t'Spokh)_

"_There must be a few times in life _

_when you stand at a precipice of a decision. _

_When you know there will forever be a _

_Before and an After..."_

* * *

From the seat behind his comm unit, Spock watched as Delta Vega traveled its familiar path into the morning sky. The fourteen days of his scheduled visit had seemed to have passed entirely too quickly for his liking. His mother, he knew, would attempt to talk him into staying a while longer, postponing the inevitably painful goodbye, and if he had any fewer duties awaiting him in San Francisco, he might consider it. As it was, he could think of no less than six pressing assignments to be completed in the foreseeable future: division training for _Enterprise_ crew members would begin in three weeks, paperwork needed to be submitted allowing the installation of on-board sensor rays to be installed, there would be meetings regarding his duties as First Officer, the posting now official, training sessions and briefings abundant.

And that, of course, was only half of it.

He glanced down at the PADD propped on his lap. The screen displayed a message from Rear Admiral Cole, received seventeen minutes and forty three seconds prior. His eyes traveled across the words he had already committed to memory, the congratulatory opening lines followed by the enthusiastic acceptance of not only his candidacy for the Advanced Phonology instructor position, but also Nyota Uhura's for that of his aide.

Had it been only sixteen days ago that he had been so eager to leave San Francisco, to warp sixteen light years away from the Academy, from Cadet Uhura? What a curious concept indeed that he should find himself so impatient to return.

Because he was impatient—not to say goodbye to his mother, or his home planet, and certainly not to endure the grueling twelve hour flight back to Earth—but to sleep in his own bed, drink tea from his own mug, sit behind his own desk. Where there had once been disbelief regarding his appointment to First Officer, now there was excitement. In eighteen short months he would be departing on a prestigious five year mission, aboard the fleet's newest ship, under the command of one of the best and brightest in the field. And until that time, he would serve as instructor to a class of promising cadets, with an incredibly talented young woman to assist him.

Carefully, he probed at the place in his mind once occupied by T'Pring. The sensation reminded him of the loss of a tooth—the strange absence of something once viewed as so permanent, but was now mercifully gone. No longer would he be forced to jiggle and prod the offending object, no longer would he feel a throb of discomfort each time it was twisted the wrong way. It had been removed, carving out a place for something newer, better suited, longer lasting.

He tried not to let Nyota Uhura's face be the first thing he pictured.

His mother's words from the previous evening played through his thoughts like a mantra, a justification for the tumult of his emotions that offered some sort of soothing solace. He no longer had an obligation to fulfill as someone's bondmate, and the likelihood that T'Pau would be able to find a suitable replacement for T'Pring was slim to none. And as Cadet Uhura would no longer be his student, but instead, a colleague, there would be no shame in allowing himself to appreciate some of her finer qualities, no indignity in granting himself a reprieve from the iron-willed resistance he had employed. There was no longer any illogic in cultivating a relationship with her, even if the extent of that relationship stopped at friendship.

_Would it be such a bad thing if it didn't?_

"I had thought that you might choose to spend your last few hours with your mother."

Spock looked up, sharply; so lost in reverie that he was, he had failed to hear his father enter his room. Sarek took a few steps past the threshold, stopping just short of where Spock was seated. His hands, seemingly of their own accord, found a place at the small of his back.

Spock stood, carefully surveying his father. Many times in his life, Spock had been told that he favored Sarek over Amanda in appearance, and the similarities, indeed, were plentiful. Apart from the obvious Vulcan features, they shared a similar tall, lean build; the same strong hands and long fingers; identical straight-bridged noses, square jaws, pronounced brows. Then, there were smaller things, characteristic quirks Spock had adopted over the years: his father's steady, purposeful stride; an inquisitive tilt of the head; the proud carriage of a son of the house of Surak.

It'd been three years, however, since he had seen his father in any other capacity than simply passing him in the halls, and he was surprised to find himself beginning to pick out the few minute differences between them. His own ears were a touch smaller, his skin tone and the color of his irises several shades lighter; his hair was darker and thicker than his father's had been, even in his prime.

"I did not wish to wake her," Spock replied belatedly.

His father studied him for a moment, dark eyes sharp, before settling down on a settee at the foot of the bed.

"She did not sleep."

He crossed one long leg over the other, settled both hands comfortably in his lap, and at Spock's startled expression, continued, "She will likely not see you again before the _Enterprise _leaves. The thought kept her awake."

Spock supposed he shouldn't have been surprised that his father had heard about his posting aboard _Enterprise_; nevertheless, he was. He felt the color rise in his cheeks, the uncomfortable twisting in his stomach reminiscent of that of a chided schoolboy.

That his father still had the power to make him squirm in his seat, even at twenty-seven, was somewhat impressive.

"Arrangements can be made for her to visit San Francisco any time she wishes," Spock pointed out, almost defensively.

Sarek nodded once in acquiescence. "Indeed. Though she is hesitant to intrude upon your life there."

Spock opened his mouth to retort—to deny—but the look his father cast silenced him.

"You left for a reason, Spock. However impulsive some may believe your decision to have been, in order for you to have carried through with it, there was some part of you that craved the independence. Your mother wishes to respect this."

Spock turned his gaze from his father's face, and his eyes fell on a holograph a short distance away. In the picture, he was proudly holding a plaque, the first-place award for some amateur engineering contest, to be sure. Next to him, his mother squatted, arm wrapped tightly around his midsection, beaming; his father was nowhere to be seen. There were numerous other holos, similar in subject, featuring only the two of them. In fact, Spock could find only one in which his father was present.

"She was not the one from whom I craved independence." His voice was soft, nearly inaudible, and he kept his gaze trained on the holo as he spoke; he neither wanted, nor did he think he was able, to look at his father.

A nearly painful silence seeped through the room. After a moment, he heard Sarek rise, heard his heavy boots travel the few steps to the door, and then pause.

"It would be illogical for me to feign acceptance, and it would be arrogant of me to assume that you require it, as the scope of your accomplishments speaks to the contrary."

Spock blinked at the unanticipated praise, and swiveled his head around. His father's shoulders were as straight and proud as ever, though his arms hung loosely at his sides—a hesitant, transitional stance, caught between stasis and motion.

"I cannot deny that, personal opinions and reservations aside, you have far surpassed any expectation I could have laid for you." He cast a brief glance over his shoulder, and caught Spock's eye for the shortest of seconds. "You are quite deserving of your assignment, _sa-fu nash-veh_."

* * *

_His fingers trace the edge of the frame carefully, almost reverently. The photograph had been a most illogical demand from his mother upon the arrival of Sybok to their family. She had believed that displaying the image in their home would somehow make the familial unit appear more cohesive—something that he hadn't understood at the time. _

_ His eyes move slowly over the four figures in the picture: his mother, her humanity belied by the sparkle of her eyes and the soft upturn of her lips, despite the traditional scarf wound snugly about her forehead and ears; his father, standing just behind his mother's seated form, face stony and brooding, shoulders stiff; Sybok, positioned slightly in front and to the left of his father, cheeks sunken and eyes haunted by a loss of innocence._

_ And then there is him. At four years old, the top of his head barely reaches his brother's elbow. His stance is unsure, body and torso cowering back into the protection of his mother's hip, shoulders and neck straining forward, curiosity propelling him towards the camera. His mother's arm is wrapped about his slender shoulders, holding him gently in place. At the last second, just before the flash had gone off, he had twisted around, head turning up towards Sybok, and the image had captured just a sliver of the side of his face—one tiny pointed ear, an expanse of cheek, the corners of an eye and mouth, part of a nose. _

_ A large copy of the image hangs above his parents' bed, and in his younger adolescent years, he had often studied it, musing on its pointless frivolity. Of course they were a family; why would they need a _photograph_ of all things to remind them of such an ingrained fact?_

_ His mother had offered both Sybok and himself a smaller copy of the picture, and while his brother had snatched his up almost immediately, Spock had hesitated, puzzled. _

_ "Mother," he had asked quietly after Sybok had left the room, "why is it that he puts such value in such a disposable item? It is merely paper and ink, is it not?"_

_ His mother had smiled then, a soft, sad smile that he hadn't understood, and reached out to swipe a hand gently across his brow. "Sybok has lost the only family he has ever known. What he values is the reassurance of our presence, and the photo is evidence of that."_

_ Now, his hand hovers millimeters over the transparent glass of the frame, just over Sybok's face. His mother had often said that the picture had perfectly personified Spock's adoration for the older boy, how eagerly he had accepted him into his life, how excited he had been to have not only a brother, but a friend, a confidante. _

_ He presses his thumb down on the glass, blocking out his brother's image. Without Sybok, the picture appears off balance, dysfunctional. It tells the tale of a distant father, mourning the loss of his firstborn, and a mother struggling to hold on to a restless child. _

_ It is an illogical indulgence, the photograph. But, he thinks, he won't be allowed many illogical indulgences during a five-year space mission. _

_ Carefully, he wraps a thick woolen scarf around the frame, and tucks it into the side of his bag._

* * *

The transporter station was bustling with midday activity, but Sarek's impressive figure easily carved a path through the crowd. Spock followed along behind him, escorting his mother on one arm, as the trio made their way to the appropriate terminal.

"You've got everything you need, right?" Amanda fussed once they reached the security gate. Her hands flittered absently across Spock's shoulders, smoothing his collar, pressing stubborn wrinkles out of his tunic. Her strange behavior caught the eye of several passers-by, and though the extra attention made him uncomfortable, Spock refrained from shrugging out of her grasp. He did, however, reach up to take hold of her fingers, pressing them down onto his chest to quiet her motions. She looked up at him with large, glassy eyes, and managed a trembling smile.

"I'm sorry," she apologized meekly. "I know, you've got everything under control."

"I have included a sweater in my carry-on, for your peace of mind." He let the corners of his mouth quirk up, just slightly, for her benefit.

Her smile stretched wider, softening the lines that anxiety had etched in her brow. "Good."

She patted his chest once before her hands drifted down to his, a plaintive request. Obligingly, Spock folded her small, cool fingers into his palms, and felt their bond spark to life. A fresh wave of tears rolled silently down her cheeks as he mentally pulled aside the barriers of his structured thoughts. There was a corner that he kept just for her, a place where he harbored her humanity—a fount, of sorts, from which he drew on her strength and wisdom.

A sob shook her shoulders, and he reached out to steady her.

"I will call you upon my return to San Francisco," he promised softly. She nodded mutely, her eyes downcast, and he bowed slightly to catch her gaze. "I will not board the _Enterprise_ for duty without arranging to see you once more."

Her head bobbed again, and he watched as she pulled herself straighter, blinking back more tears. Out of the corner of his eye, Spock saw his father step forward and surreptitiously press two fingers against hers. He knew there would be no more crying until she was once again within the walls of _D'H'riset_.

Spock took a step back, bending to collect his luggage in one hand. Absently, his mind whispered that he only had three minutes in which to board and find his seat before the shuttle departed. As he straightened, his free hand came up automatically, fingers spreading into the _ta'al_. He met his father's eyes for one last time, and a look of understanding passed between them.

"_Dif-tor heh smusma, sa-mekh._"

Sarek inclined his head minutely. "_Sochya eh dif, Spokh._"

Without another backward glance, he turned and made his way to the shuttle, feeling the weight of his parents' gazes on him the entire time. He swiped his identification card at the boarding entrance, and once in the cabin, stowed his small carry-on bag in the overhead bin above his seat. He sunk down next to a middle aged woman in obvious meditation, and waited in polite silence until the captain's voice informed the passengers via intercom that take off was imminent. Spock watched as, one by one, the travelers in the seats around him slipped into light meditative trances. It was not until the shuttle had exited the Vulcan atmosphere and he had allowed himself one last look at the rust colored sphere that he let his eyes fall closed and his thoughts melt away.

* * *

"_...I knew there would be no turning back _

_if I designated this moment as my own Prime Meridian _

_from which everything else would be measured." _

_-_Justina Chen

* * *

_Ta'al_—traditional Vulcan hand salute

"_Dif-tor heh smusma, sa-mekh."-"_Live long and prosper, Father."

"_Sochya eh dif, Spokh."_—"Peace and long life, Spock."


End file.
